


Peace Has Always Depended

by littlelionlady



Series: Put your love down [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anxiety, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mild Angst, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Mutual Pining, Napoleon Solo is a mess, Soft Illya Kuryakin, Spies, Spies & Secret Agents, Substance Abuse, Title from a Hozier Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24733612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelionlady/pseuds/littlelionlady
Summary: In Colombia, he smoked a local herb and leant into Illya’s rough embrace as he was manhandled into his cot, not remembering what his loose tongue had uttered to the Russian, whose gaze was soft and warm the next morning in a way that made Napoleon want to lick right off his face in a slow, sleepy manner.They're constantly weaving around each other, and Illya is worried that it's all in his head. Napoleon is worried he won't even get that chance.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Put your love down [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1788553
Comments: 6
Kudos: 105





	Peace Has Always Depended

**Author's Note:**

> skumring.katt commented on [Moment's Silence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23697025/chapters/56895661) asking to see what happened in Colombia. This is that fic.
> 
> Strasbourg Court refers to the European Court of Human Rights, established in 1959.
> 
> Title from Arsonist's Lullaby by Hozier.

The oppressive heat of Cartagena clogged their throats with too much salt and the metallic bitterness of wet metal, like licking the side of a boiling pot. Looking at Napoleon, the heat made Illya think of licking the side of his neck; from his collarbone up to just under his ear. Sticky and metallic and salty. He looked away. 

Their safe house was run down and dusty in that sticky way that makes everything feel oily, as though cleanliness would be a mere fantasy until they re-entered the cooler climates of Western Europe again. Illya already missed the oppressive cloudiness of London. It was not until this moment he realised that he preferred water in the air to be dripping down the back of his shirt collar, as opposed to systematically breathing it in, in an attempt to drown himself on thick humidity. 

Napoleon, oddly enough, seemed to be fine. 

Gaby immediately flopped onto the dingy couch as soon as the door opened. A cloud of dust erupted around her and she leapt off with a yelp and began a coughing fit that both Illya and Napoleon desperately tried not to laugh at. The cloud added to an already thin layer of grime, lending Gaby the look of a street urchin. 

He handed her his canteen and patted her on the back. 

“I hate you both,” she shot at them, before taking a hearty swig. 

Illya shrugged. 

“How long are we here for again?” she asked, eyeing the couch warily and scratching the back of her neck. 

Napoleon turned his back to them in the kitchen, fiddling with taps and the stovetop and packets of chlorine solution. 

“Waverley said it was clean,” Illya supplied, eyeing Napoleon’s movements with trepidation. 

“Can never be too careful,” Napoleon replies, “It should be fine to bathe and clean clothes in, but I want to be sure it’s safe for drinking.” 

He watched Napoleon light the stove and set a huge pot on the flame, fiddling with matches and checking the packets of solution for the correct dosage. Illya watched his movements and barely succeeded in not smiling. He took the bottle from Gaby, mumbled _four days_ under his breath, and drank the rest of the water down in seconds. 

“May as well make yourself at home Miss Teller, it’s not going to be all that comfortable,” Napoleon called from the kitchen. 

Gaby grumbled all the way to the washroom. 

Illya moved to the kitchen and stood at Napoleon's shoulder, close enough to touch. He didn't though. That was important, that he didn't touch flighty Napoleon who wouldn't recognise a kind hand even if it traced his dimples. He would simply run. Or reach out and bite. Illya didn’t touch, even though it had been months and he desperately wanted to. 

"Do you ever think about being too cautious?" he asked instead. 

Napoleon's breath hitched momentarily before he breathed out slowly and carefully took the boiling water off the burner, setting it aside to cool completely before it would be safe for consumption. He took a smaller pot, filled it, and put it back on the same burner to boil. 

"No," he replied after a moment. 

Illya was not surprised. 

“Let it cool,” the American mumbled, sliding away from Illya and out of the kitchen. 

Illya squeezed the bridge of his nose in mild frustration, “I have been.”

  
  
  
  
  


Gaby laughed low and throaty in Illya and Napoleon’s ears. Over the din of the bar, it was quiet but audible in their earpieces. This one was all down to Gaby. She leaned over the edge of the booth’s table, her cleavage barely on display and deliciously tantalising enough. Juan Manuel Cortez leaned forward and whispered in her ear. She slid into the booth next to him. 

Illya breathed out a sigh of relief. 

Napoleon huffed a laugh. 

“She’s quite good at that,” he said, lifting his drink to his lips and taking a sip. 

Illya quirked an eyebrow and continued watching Gaby, knowing full well where Gaby had learnt the skills for this mission, “She had a good teacher.” 

Illya was not so subtle as to leave Napoleon completely alone. It was important to him that Napoleon learned he was and would persist to be a continued presence, but it was also important to him that Napoleon knew that Illya _wanted_ him. That he noticed him, how beautiful he was, how talented and amusing he was. Had Illya known Napoleon was an option, had he known Napoleon _wanted him back,_ he would have chased the man long before, back when Waverley had created U.N.C.L.E. But now he just felt like a dog with a bone, because no matter what, Napoleon needed time. He needed to know he was safe, and he needed to know he was wanted and if that meant Illya had to be patient then so be it. That was not going to stop him from flirting a little though. 

The look on Napoleon’s face made it worth it too. 

“Are you okay Cowboy?” he asked, a smirk pulling the corner of his lips up while he watched Napoleon briefly out of the corner of his eye. 

Napoleon swallowed heavily and looked away, blush rising high in his cheeks. He tapped his cigarette against the ashtray with shaking fingers before lifting it back to his lips. Illya looked away, gripping his knees to stop himself reaching out. 

“Yeah, I’m good.” 

Illya held back his chuckle and turned back to watch Gaby slide a hand up the thigh of their mark. All she needed was to get him to say who he worked for. 

“Leverage,” Waverley had explained, “To convince him to testify in an upcoming case.” He had waved his hand away, mumbling something about Strasbourg Court and everyone had emphatically left that one alone. 

Gaby talked and flirted with Cortez, playing with his hands, paying for his steady stream of drinks and, finally, trying the thigh trick one more time. It worked like a charm, and the man spilt all his secrets out across the table like he’d knocked over a glass. Gaby drank it all in, and Napoleon laughed out loud; a wonderful golden sound that warmed Illya up from the inside out. 

She smiled indulgently at their mark, bundled him up and loaded him into the back of a cab with the promise to call on him soon. She wouldn’t of course, they were leaving in a day, but it was enough to placate his entirely drunk self. Illya watched her wave at the cab until it was out of sight, shake herself out, brush her hair away from her face; the only acknowledgement she didn't enjoy this part of the job. 

Gaby sauntered back inside, slid into the chair next to Napoleon, and stole his drink from right out under his nose, downing it all in one go. Napoleon let it go and signalled the bartender for another two. 

“That bad?” Illya asked, patting her on the shoulder. 

She shrugged, “Not really, I didn’t have to sleep with him.” 

Illya nodded his agreement as the bartender returned with the drinks Napoleon had ordered. He smirked and raised the glass to his lips, mumbling something that caused Gaby to smack him hard on the back of the head, “Behave,” she barked, and he blushed. 

“You’re no fun,” he bit back, a fond smile on his mouth. 

She huffed, downing the drink Napoleon had bought her with ease and rising from the chair, “I need to bathe.” 

Illya finished his drink and stood with her, “I’ll come with you.” 

  
  
  
  
  


Gaby had settled in for the night when Napoleon stumbled over the threshold of their safehouse, pupils blown and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbow. His hair was dishevelled and colour was high in his cheeks, a lazy smile spreading across his face at the sight of Illya. He was beautiful. 

“How was your evening Cowboy?” Illya asked. 

Napoleon collapsed into the chair across from him at the table, Illya’s chess set rocking haphazardly between them. 

“Did you miss me?” he asked by way of an answer. 

Illya huffed a laugh at his lazy sprawl, noting his partner’s long limbs and delicious warmth, his blown pupils and bitten lips. 

“I always miss you,” he said, voice low, colour rising in his cheeks, glancing away to look at his game. 

Napoleon leaned forward and propped his chin on his hands to rake his eyes slowly over Illya. The Russian could feel the pull of his gaze dragging up his spine and sending shivers through his stomach. 

“I found a game of cards,” he whispered after a long silence filled with steady, deep breathing, “We were betting secrets.” 

Illya hummed to show he was listening and moved his bishop. 

“Someone passed me a pipe. I feel good,” he leaned back and shook his arms and ran a hand through his loose hair, letting it flop back onto his forehead where the pomade had melted out in the heat. 

Illya hummed again. He filed that one away, Waverley didn’t need to know about this. 

“I won,” Napoleon said, “But I bet the biggest secrets I had,” he closed his eyes with a sigh and leaned back heavily, melting into the stiff wood, “All my secrets are about you Peril.” 

He opened his eyes and Illya found he could not look away. Napoleon licked his lips and dropped his eyes to Illya’s own, “God, I want to kiss you,” he said, “I want to kiss you and I would be so happy if that was all. I want to touch you. I want to fall asleep next to you. God,” he huffed a heartbroken little chuckle, “I’m terrified.” 

Illya felt his face soften as he took in the man before him, so grievously unaware of his _goodness._ His secrets spilling across the table reminded Illya so much of Gaby’s mark earlier in the evening and he was struck with the weight of what Waverley had tasked them with. It was their job to coerce strangers into vulnerability and extract secrets for exploitation, and here he was listening as Napoleon spread his out for Illya to browse and use however he wanted. 

He held his hand up to cut Napoleon off, “You should stop Cowboy,” he said softly, closing his eyes against the onslaught of fondness and exasperation. 

“No,” the American shook his head, “I am _terrified_ ,” he whispered, voice breaking over the word, “That they will take you away from me. Or me away from you. It is too good to be true Illya,” he reached out and twisted his fingers around Illya’s, palms sweaty with misery. 

“They’re always watching me.” 

Illya squeezed, “Time for bed Napoleon.” 

He stood and moved around the table to hoist Napoleon up on unsteady feet, practically slinging the man over his shoulder. If he held the man closer than was strictly necessary, well, he wasn’t likely to remember it in the morning. 

Napoleon’s breath was hot on his cheek as he turned his head to watch Illya move him with wide eyes like he was trying to suck the image of the Russian in through his retinas. If he opened his eyes wide enough, maybe the sight of Illya would scar itself into his pupils and he would never be able to forget. 

Illya dropped him unceremoniously into his cot and reached down to tug his shoes off, and tug his shirt out of his pants where it was still tucked in. He left Napoleon’s clothes on; no one had ever suffered from sleeping in a suit. He guided Napoleon into a position lying down on top of the sheets before leaning down and brushing his lips over Napoleon’s sweaty forehead. 

“Not even death could drag me away from you,” he muttered, praying Napoleon would not remember in the morning. When he leaned back, the American’s eyes were already closed. 

  
  
  
  
  


When Napoleon opened his eyes the following morning, he _sincerely_ regretted it and immediately closed them again, rolling over to bury his face in the lumpy pillow under his head with a groan. 

“Oh,” he heard a voice near the door say, “You are awake.” 

“Barely,” he grumbled. 

Illya’s throaty chuckle sent a jolt down his spine and when he rolled over to take the Russian in, he was leaning against the door frame in sleep pants with a clean white t-shirt stretched over his chest, hair still damp and curling against the nape of his neck from his shower. He held a mug of coffee to his lips, smirking around it, and Napoleon realised with startling clarity that he wanted to wake up to that image _every single morning_ for the rest of his natural life. 

“Coffee?” Illya asked. 

Napoleon nodded, “Please,” and he was proud that the word came out only slightly strangled. 

Illya turned his back to head to the kitchen but Napoleon cleared his throat, “Uhh, Peril?” he began, “What happened last night?” 

"What do you remember?" 

Napoleon shrugged, "Cards and what I'm now assuming was some illicit substance in that pipe," he clicked his tongue against the back of his throat and winced. 

Illya’s smirk turned into a soft smile and Napoleon’s heart lurched, “Nothing you need to worry about Cowboy,” he said, "You came home and I tucked you in," and then, without further preamble, turned and walked back to the small kitchenette of the safe house. 

Cards didn’t sound too bad to Napoleon. Getting tucked in by Illya did. 

"You couldn't even take my nice clothes off!" he called after the Russian. 

He reappeared a few minutes later, bearing a mug marked for Napoleon and with a delicious expression that sent heat immediately curling low in Napoleon's gut. 

"Trying to give you space," he muttered, "Trying to be proper. As difficult as that is with you strutting around looking breathtaking all the time."

Napoleon took that cup in jerky fingers, "Right," he choked, "I will endeavour to not tempt you."

Illya’s answering smile was warm and Napoleon felt like he was dissolving again. He wanted to lick the smile right off Illya’s face.

"Many thanks, Cowboy."

**Author's Note:**

> find me on Tumblr at [thelittlelionlady](https://thelittlelionlady.tumblr.com/)


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